Tonight I broke bread with relatives and said prayers over a dismantled chicken wing and hardboiled egg.

Earlier in the week, a local "shock jock" radio guy expressed befuddlement, with a hint of dismay, over the collective sorrow regarding the passing of the artist formerly known as Prince.

I told my family they are idiots for doing a bunch of rituals "because a book says to," and/or to pay homage to our "ancestors", and that the Jews shouldn't have made such a ****ing fuss over flat bread during a caravan through the desert.

The radio guy was correct that barely anyone who gave a crap about Prince dying actually knew him. What he was wrong about was the existence of an explicit form of spiritual connectivity that is easily defined.

The Artwork from The Artist transcendentally helped people. Not unlike other music (and certainly within a realm of the transcendent, as a different word or lengthier definition would include a description of the abundant space encompassing human neural-circuitry affected by music + emotion + memory-- which if captured in a painting, would cause some to spend the rest of their life rejecting the idea of looking away) either. It's human to have an emotion related to wanting to thank any musician for gifting us (and to be frank, the $10 you paid for the CD approaches 0 when the entire trials and tribulation, not to mention courage, of The Artist is accounted for) the songs we like to listen to. And besides for our mortality, we are starkly reminded that it is unlikely we will ever be able to thank the conjurer of sounds who died-- which is not something one should expect to "think through" to help deal-- analogous to the emotions related to mourning.

The former artist known as prince.

The juxtaposition of tinfoil+paper plate+cheesy junk food is lIke a haiku. Beautiful and complex. I just want to say that I appreciate you as an artist and will mourn your loss by major heartattack at 30.

RIP ScreaminAsian.

Is this another riddle where you ignore dozens of valid solutions for a couple weeks?

shut up

It's better than almost everything by Jackson ****ing Pollock